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'Finally Home', a short Story


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This is a small story I wrote many years ago, that I have just touched up and typed onto my computer. Please allow for the sentimental idiot that i am when/if you read this. Oh and for the bad grammar used.

Worry not Des I shall not steal the crown from your head.

FINALLY HOME

The room was silent but for the rustling of the newspapers and the barely audible chewing of toast. The older of the two men around the table looked up over his paper at his younger counterpart and studied the young but prematurely aged features, before going back to the news held upon the inky pages of the paper.

As the younger man reached for his large mug of tea, the older man threw down the paper in disgust and spat

“ Bloody Murder that’s what it is, nothing but sheer bloody murder!” Patrick Keogh’s voice was thick with emotion and anger and it always served to heighten his Irish accent.

His son looked up from his tea and could see the anger welling up in his father and marvelled at his ability to find something to curse about every morning from the written pages of his habitual paper.

Almost as a duty and very reluctantly he ventured a question.

“What’s up now Dad?” his voice held no real interest and unlike his dads did not carry the accent of his forefathers.

His fathers reply came fast and furious heavy again with accent.

“This blood bath that is going on in Poland. Those dam ******* Bolsheviks are slaughtering the Polish troops and pushing on the gates of Warsaw. It wont stop there you know.”

Sarcastically but with meaning the son came back.

“A war to end all wars, eh Dad. Didn’t take long for us to mess that one up.” His voice carried no meaning to his father though as he seemed to be oblivious of the sarcasm intoned in the syllables.

“Sod that Richard, there banging at the gates of Warsaw, someone should give them a bloody nose.”

“The poles started it.”

“Is that all you can say lad. Your mothers homeland and Warsaw being her city, do you feel nothing?”

He considered lying before he answered but decided that truth was best.

“ Not really Dad, Poland is hundreds of miles away and its none of my business” The older man for a moment calmed as though the argument had been sapped from him by his sons words.

Then he looked hard into his sons face. The face that had changed in the years that had seen the greatest war that the world had witnessed. A war that had pitted former friends against each other and had changed everything for ever.

His son would never talk about his experiences and the man who had gone off to war had gone for good never to return. A bright spirit had vanished replaced by a hollow former self. Both he and his wife had tried to be patient and had given him time to adjust but it was all one way and he was showing no signs of unravelling.

Then he too as if not caring any more carried on the argument.

“You speak the language like a native Richard. Your mother sat you on her lap and told you stories of her family and it history, you hankered often for more. Now that means nothing to you?”

“That was years ago Dad, a lot has happened since then. I am no longer the young innocent boy who sat listening to trivial romantic nonsense. I have seen the reality of being in this world.” Abruptly he rose to leave, his words echoing an almost pleading resonance to leave it. But as he made to walk away his father came back.

Patrick Keogh stood as if to give his words venom and meaning.

“You feel nothing? You spit on your mothers heritage and dishonour her?”

The words drew up the younger man instantly. But he did not turn to face his accuser and simply replied.

“Its not that, I just don’t see that it is anything to do with me.” The words seemed hollow and without any conviction even to him as he said them and this just heightened his wont to be away from the room.

“ don’t let your mother hear you say that.”

But it was already too late, for as Richard looked up to leave the room the small sparkly figure of his mother stood in the frame work of the doorway. Her eyes were sad, her complexion ruddy with anger.

Richard Keogh stopped again. This time the guilt sparked slightly in him. He realised just by looking at her that she had heard most of the conversation.

Helena Keogh, born Radokowski, in Warsaw Poland had in fact heard almost all of the conversation that had taken place between her husband and son.

“ I heard it all” simple statement said in an accent that still retained some of her origin, though unlike her husbands which was obvious to locate, hers had that edge that made it foreign but hard to place.

Her son dropped his head in shame, at least an emotion she thought as she looked at her only birth. She had seen a boy of to war and a stranger had returned, grown and changed by the war beyond recognition to her. The boy that had left would never had said the words he just had. Her heart felt heavy as her son would not catch her eyes.

Then with more calm than she felt she said,

“Its not just any country,” her voice showed none of the hurt that Richard knew was there. “ Its part of your blood, like it or not you are as near Polish as British.”

There was silence, Richard debated leaving, but as often on the front when he was beyond it all, he felt his blood rising.

“I am one man what bloody difference would I make. Poland’s destiny will be decided by others higher than me, what ever I do will make no difference.”

“That’s no answer and you know it,” his mother retorted. Again there was silence, a silence that was ripped apart by his mothers final words, words that tore the cover from his well hidden emotions. “Why don’t you care any more?”

Richard Keogh turned from both his parents and looked at the clock on the mantle piece. The tick tock, tick tock had always been a comfort to him, but now as each tick replaced tock he could feel his temper rushing to the fore. Suddenly it over whelmed him and he rounded on his parents.

“I spent three long years fighting the Germans as part of the British Army. I can belong to only one nation. If Poland invaded Britain tomorrow would you expect me to cut myself in half and fight for both sides.” The last few words were spat staccato like, the spittle flying from his mouth to reinforce the anger that was boiling over.

It was his father who tried this time.

“We are not asking you to fight, just to care”

“Care!” his word came so fast that it echoed his fathers and then he laughed manically “What the hell did caring ever solve.” with his adrenalin now feeding his anger he continued. “ Do either of you think you have been told the real truth of what it was like out there, those bloody murderous battles. The countless thousands who were killed or maimed all because they cared. I’ve seen hundreds die in minutes, there lives thrown away because they cared and for what?”

He faced his father” Please do not say for the sake of freedom” His father who was about to answer his son, stopped and lowered his head. Richard laughed sarcastically knowing his fathers dejection had shown he was about to say just that.

Had he looked he would have seen the horror on his mothers face, for his features were now contorted by the anger that was over whelming him, but he cared not to look his anger had now erupted and he once again spat the words forth.

“I learnt to kill by instinct, to despatch life without a second thought, do it to them before they do it to you. We that survived Loos, lost sight of the cause long before the Somme, our only objective was to survive.”

His breathing was heavy the words drawing on his energy.

“You don’t know what it is like to kill a man. I have lost count of the poor defenceless ******** I’ve killed or maimed. I’ve felt nothing when I ‘ve plunged a dagger between a mans ribcage and pushed up into his heart. To feel his hot blood ooze down onto my hand all hot and sticky. Or to pull a trigger and see someone’s son or husbands face erupt in a mass of splintered bone. There stomachs ripped open from the shells and there inners falling out whilst alive they try in vain to stuff them back in.“

He faced his mother this time as he said

“British or German the dead all look the same, it was something we had in common with our enemy,” as if she would understand this more than his father.

“I am sick and tired of it all. You dare to ask me why I don’t care. I don’t bloody care because everything I ever cared about goes wrong.” his voice cracked with the emotion, “If I dare to love it is taken from me.”

He did not seem to notice that his train of thought had changed. it was not lost on his parents who stood rooted to the spot. The hurt and agony spilling from there son, yet both unable to move or help him.

He carried on,

“I’m scared to care because I hurt. I can’t take anymore. I’ve lost everything I ever wanted and I don’t want to hurt anymore.” the hurt was now all apparent in his voice, replacing the anger that had been there seconds before.

His mother made to move to him the trance forgotten.

Her sons body began to shake the tears trickled down his face, they turned to sobs as his body shook from the release as for the first time in four years Richard Keogh began to cry.

Helena Keogh stopped in front of her son and spoke, gently as she had when he was a boy and he had hurt.

“Who did you loose Richard?”

“Countless friends gone for ever.” he replied a whisper between the sobs.

“Who else Richard, who else?”

Very quietly he said so that both parents could hardly hear his words.

“I lost Beth, I loved her so much and I lost her”

She took her son into her arms and soaked up the sobs holding his shaking body, firmly but gently as she had many times before and then quietly as she looked at her husband over her sons shoulder she said.

“He’s home, our son is finally home.” Then she too began to cry and Richard knew they had planned it all.

2 Comments


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armourersergeant

Posted

Thanks Kim,

I have a few of these sort of things. Many years ago I played around with a theme and tried different stories in which to show it.

I might try posting another one if I get the time to type it up.

regards

Arm

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armourersergeant

Posted

Arm,

I have just re read this short story of yours and have enjoyed it again, It makes you ask the question how many homes did that happen in after the war was over. Excellant, have you any more?

Mandy

Mandy

I do have some more I will one day get round to putting them up itys just time.

regards

Arm

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